


Snow in the Sunlight

by SailorFish



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Season/Series 07 Spoilers, Spoilers, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 03:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11888625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: Sansa Stark and Davos Seaworth manage to convince the King in the North that going south would cause more problems than it's worth. But the North needs the Dragon Queen's support, and so Sansa is sent as emissary instead. Neither woman is quite what the other expected.De-anoned from the kinkmeme.





	1. Jon

“You _can’t_ ,” says Sansa.

There’s so much panic in her voice that Jon feels an instinctive surge of adrenaline rush through him. Her eyes are huge. She hadn’t even looked as horrified when she had witnessed him consumed by rage, beating Ramsay half to death with his bare fists. Jon’s finely honed instincts are screaming at him to shift his weight so he can draw his sword, to murder whatever is causing his sister such terror.

But there is no one in the room but the remaining Starks and Davos, and her fear is directed at himself.

The room isn’t large enough for his naked blade anyway - cramped and dim, with little more furniture than a round table and a few chairs (though they’re all too agitated to take advantage of them). It is private, however, as best of the three of them can tell. Jon’s glad of it. He’d wanted to summon the bannermen immediately to tell everyone of his decision to go south. It was only fluke that he had run into Davos and Sansa on the way, only the sight of two foreheads creased in worry that made him decide to talk to his advisors in private first. Sam’s letter is still clutched in his hands.

Now that the sudden rush of battle-wariness is fading, irritation is replacing it. He had not thought Sansa would react particularly well to his announcement, but she is reacting far worse than he’d expected. They both want what’s best for Winterfell and for each other, but until now they have not once fully agreed on how to go about it. It’s frustrating.

At least they’re having the argument in private this time.

“I have to go,” he repeats firmly. “The dragonglass - ”

“Father went south,” she interrupts. “Robb went south. Grandfather and Uncle Brandon went south. Have you not noticed the pattern?”

“I know our family history, Sansa!” Jon snaps back at her. “Do you have a better idea? We need dragonglass and we need allies. The Houses left are loyal either to the Lannisters or to the Targaryen queen - if you’d rather I go to Cersei…”

He trails off as she pales and presses her lips together so tight they go white. A pinpoint needle of remorse jabs at him, but before he can take the words back, Sansa lifts her chin.

“Lannister queen or Targaryen queen, what does it matter?” she says. “Joffrey forced me to stare at Father’s head on a spike. I’m sure either queen will be more than happy to repeat the experience and send me yours.”

It’s Jon’s turn to pale. His sister doesn’t talk about what happened to her very much, but when she does, it often seems deliberately used to hurt him. Sympathy and protective rage for Sansa at the image her words conjure up war with irritation at her for the manipulation.

The siblings glare at each other.

“If I may, Your Grace...” says Davos into the silence. “I agree with Lady Sansa.” He throws up a hand as Jon turns to him. “Now I’m not saying we should dismiss the idea of an alliance completely. The Targaryen queen is said to have fire-breathing dragons, several armies, and now, a mountain of dragonglass. It would be foolish to ignore her.”

He says it so firmly that Sansa shrinks a little.

“But..?” prompts Jon.

“But even if she can be trusted, your position as King is too new. Everyone tells me the Northern Lords are a proud and loyal people. What if you’re asked to bend the knee to get even an audience with her? What if you’re forced to stay for far longer than expected? I mean no offense, Your Grace, my Lady, but House Stark’s position here is still very vulnerable. Too vulnerable for such a trip not to cause severe friction with your bannermen. Gaining allies in the south is worthless if you lose your allies here.”

Jon looks away. Davos’ words make far too much sense. They’d barely gotten anyone to help them retake Winterfell. They crowned Jon King, but he’s not his father, or even Robb. They barely know him, and he barely knows them - their loyalty is still a fickle thing. Old scars tug at him: he may be King in the North, but he’s still a motherless whelp, a Snow.

And yet, not going is not an option. Jon shakes his head.

“Alright,” he says. “So you’ve both counselled me on what I _can’t_ do. What exactly is your counsel on what I _should_ do?”

Davos’ eyebrows furrow together - he’s not sure either. They stand a few moments in silence, all three not looking at each other. Their advice has made him more wary, but without another plan, it’s also rather useless.

“Send an emissary instead,” says Sansa suddenly.

Jon considers the idea and dismisses it quickly.

“Who would I send? There’s precious few people I trust, and besides which, Daenerys is a queen. If I send just some Northerner to her, she’ll likely take it as an insult. I doubt anyone but me - ”

“Jon,” she interrupts him and her eyes are huge again. Her back is very straight. “Do you… Is this really the only way to survive the Winter?”

He meets her gaze squarely. He has tilt his head up just slightly each time to do it, and each time that’s still a small shock. She looks very much like her lady mother, and that’s still a small shock too. But Lady Catelyn had never looked at him quite that expression on her face - a mixture of determination, fear, and obstinacy.

“Aye, I truly believe it is,” he replies softly. “I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Sansa breathes out once, harshly.

“Then send me instead.”

Jon stares at her.

He feels as if he’s had the wind knocked out of him. His ears are ringing. It reminds him unpleasantly of when Styr had slammed his head into an anvil. Davos and Sansa are beginning to argue, but the sound seems muted. His mouth is very dry.

“My Lady, no. We cannot ask you - ”

“You are not _asking_ me, I’m offering.”

“If this is a trap and you’re taken hostage - ”

“Then that will be better than Jon being taken hostage! I think Jon has a better chance of fighting a Dothraki horde for me than I for him.”

“He does have a better chance of fighting his way out by himself, however.”

“Out of a Dothraki horde and three dragons? I doubt it. And Tyrion will be there, which - ”

“ _Are you out of your mind?!_ ” Jon’s finally found enough moisture in his mouth to speak.

His sister whirls to glare at him, but something in the look on his face makes her swallow her angry retort. Sansa’s expression softens.

“You said you didn’t want to send ‘some Northerner’,” she says. “I am not some Northerner. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and House Stark is no less greater than House Targaryen. And I’m former wife to her Hand. That should be enough to grant me an audience, no?”

“You’re also my sister,” Jon growls. “I promised to keep you safe.”

“And you can’t keep me safe from the Night King without an alliance with House Targaryen.”

“That doesn’t mean I can just give you to them on a silver platter!”

“Listen to yourself!” Sansa laughs mirthlessly. “I’m scared she’ll do the same thing to you, you idiot! This plan makes more sense and you know it, Jon. I know Tyrion better than you and I’ve more experience with queens too.” Her lips twist unpleasantly and Jon flinches preemptively. “I have more experience with _begging_ queens, for that matter. And while I negotiate, you’ll have a chance to consolidate your claim with the Northern Lords. The only reason for you to object is if you don’t trust me, or if you still think I’m a stupid little girl who can’t help you.”

Her voice is steady but as she talks, he notices that her hands are twitching. They clench to bone white, then unclench slowly, then fidget as if she wants to wring them, and then clench again. She’s terrified, Jon realises. Going south is her nightmare, not his. Being taken hostage and used against her family is her nightmare as well. She’s lived it already, and now she’s prepared to live it again, if that’s what it takes to survive the Long Night.

He’s asked every man, woman, and child to fight. The Night King is coming, and he cannot say no to any resource, not even if that resource is his own sister.

“I’m just worried,” he tells her softly.

“I’ll take Brienne,” she promises. “And… Ser Davos, if both of you don’t mind.”

Davos looks startled, then gazes thoughtfully between them.

“That will give me a bit more comfort,” Jon concedes, and pretends he doesn’t see both Sansa and Davos hide their smiles as they nod at each other.

Jon hesitates for a second longer, looking her over head to toe, then finally pulls her in for a hug.

“And remember,” he whispers into her hair, low enough that Davos cannot hear. “You’re my sister. If you call me, I’ll march the North and the Vale south for you.”

Sansa actually snorts.

“I’m not sure that’s comforting,” she says.

But he can feel her relaxing in his arms, and when he pulls back, some colour has finally returned to her face. The smile she shoots him is positively wolfish.


	2. Tyrion

Tyrion hadn’t exactly travelled with Jon Snow for long, so he’s not quite sure where this confidence in the man comes from. In truth, it would be rather ludicrous to expect Snow to travel so far south on just one missive. Nonetheless, when an Unsullied guard tells them a ship with a wolf on its sails approaches, Tyrion is not the least bit surprised.

As he’s met Snow before, he’s chosen as the leader of the little welcoming party Daenerys has prepared. He stands easily with Missandei and waits for the smaller boat to take its passengers from ship to shore.

The first to get out of the rowboat is a very tall knight. Tyrion blinks - the knight is a woman. It’s Brienne of Tarth. Last he knew she was with his brother in King’s Landing. Why is she with Snow now? The knight reaches a hand down to help another person - another woman, far shorter - gracefully step onto the shore. Tyrion blinks again, genuinely taken aback. Has Jon Snow taken a wife, a Queen in the North?

Then the Lady approaches, and Tyrion is hard-pressed to keep from gaping. He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping open.

It’s Sansa.

Now he’s surprised.

While he’s busy collecting his wits, his erstwhile wife curtsies. There’s a small smile on her face. She’s grown from a beautiful girl into a stunning woman. 

“My Lord Husband,” she says.

Tyrion has to fake a small cough to hide the strangled noise in his throat. He swears he can feel Missandei’s heavy gaze on the back of his head.

“Lady Stark,” he replies. He places a note of emphasis on her family name and her smile doesn’t change.

Still, as a reminder, it’s an effective one. Theirs had been a sham marriage and never consummated. On the other hand, it had also never officially been dissolved. And he _had_ placed a Lannister cloak around her shoulders, and promised her his protection, both in front of the septon and alone in her room. It would mean disgrace for him if he let her get hurt, if he still cared about disgrace. He does still care about promises.

“My brother, the King in the North, sends his greetings and his apologies to the Dragon Queen,” Sansa says. “As she no doubt knows, reclaiming one’s rightful home takes time. He therefore sends me as his envoy to discuss matters with Her Grace in his stead.”

Ah, that is a pity! It would have certainly been easier for Snow and Daenerys to trust each other if they had met. At least the North is not completely unwilling to negotiate - a welcome thought after the heavy loss of Dorne and the Iron Islands.

They present their companions to one another. Tyrion wonders at how little this Sansa resembles the one he remembers. He cannot read her as easily as he could in King’s Landing, even when she had murmured the correct words of devotion. There’d been no news of her after his escape to Essos of course, and the more recent reports from Varys are fragmented and confusing: perhaps she had lived peacefully with her Aunt, or perhaps she had fled to the Wall, or perhaps she had hidden as Littlefinger’s bastard daughter, or perhaps she had been married off to the Boltons. He hopes the last one isn’t true: the thought of her being married twice-over into the Houses of her family's enemies makes him wince.

It’s on the long way up to the castle that Tyrion glimpses Sansa underneath her heavy cloak of formality.

“Tyrion,” she says, soft enough that the others cannot hear. “Is… That is, do you have news of Shae?”

She is continuing, but Tyrion doesn’t hear her. _Shae_. He stumbles over nothing, and forces himself to keep walking. He hadn’t heard her name spoken in years. He hadn’t dreamed of her long hair, her dark eyes, her perfect tits, in years. Just the sound of her name shouldn’t stop him in his footsteps like that. But Shae was a whore, and Tyrion and Sansa - and maybe Bronn - are likely the only ones who still remember her, who could still share fond memories of her if they wished to.

“She’s gone,” he forces himself to say, his voice too loud.

Sansa looks startled, but doesn’t press. Desperately, Tyrion casts about to change the subject. The Purple Wedding, his imprisonment and trial, _Shae’s voice_ , are all clanging around in his mind.

“Was it really you who killed Joffrey?” he says abruptly.

The Lady’s eyebrows furrow together and the look she shoots him is long and assessing. Tyrion offers her a weak smile in return. It’s a stupid question, he knows. He’s never believed it himself. It’s just that he needs to think of something else.

“No, though I wish I had,” she says, and seems pleased at his quiet huff of approval. She hesitates a moment, then continues, “It was Petyr.”

“Petyr _Baelish?_ Littlefinger?!”

He has to stop for a moment to process that. His mind is whirring. The Lannisters had given Littlefinger anything he could have wanted - wealth, power. Tyrion had thought long and hard on the people who might have poisoned his nephew. Of the people he had come up with, the former Master of Coin was not high on the list.

All along, he’d thought his framing was accidental - that ease and convenience had led the poisoner to pin the blame on the despised dwarf and his traitor wife. But Littlefinger is not a man who does things out of ease and convenience. He would have chosen Tyrion on purpose.

“What did I ever do to him?” says Tyrion. The corners of his mouth turn up in a lopsided grin. He can think of many things he might have done to Littlefinger.

“Perhaps it’s that you married Catelyn Stark’s daughter,” replies Sansa absentmindedly.

That was not one of them. Tyrion shoots her a startled look. Before he can think of how to reply, Sansa stumbles to a sudden stop herself. A dragon screeches to its sibling. Tyrion looks up to see the three of them flying down to the sea. They’re playing, calling to each other and chasing after one another. Their long wings dip into the water as they skim over the surface. Around him, all the Northerners have gone pale.

“They’re real,” breathes Sansa.

“They are,” Tyrion says softly. He remembers the awe and terror he hears in her voice all too well. He still feels them. Sansa stares out at the dragons for a moment longer. Then she sets off again.

They climb the rest of the way up in silence.

\--*--*--

The Dragon Queen’s introduction is imposing, but perhaps a touch less so than if she had been meeting with Jon Snow. Sansa is just not the same level of threat. Next to her, Brienne of Tarth looks mildly uncomfortable without her sword at her side. She is holding a soft bundle in her arms. On Sansa’s other side, Davos Seaworth has his hands clasped behind his back.

“Your Grace, may I present Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell,” says Lady Brienne. “She is sister to the King in the North, Jon Snow.”

Sansa curtsies.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Your Grace,” she says. “I hope this will be the rekindling of a great friendship between our two Houses.” She gestures at the bundle in Brienne’s arms. “If it please Your Grace, I’ve brought you a small token of greeting.”

The actual giving of the gift is slightly awkward: Lady Brienne cannot approach the throne without the Dothraki tensing, so she must hand it over to a bloodrider (the two glare at each other, Lady Brienne threateningly, the Dothraki with a hint of interest), who then hands it to his Khaleesi.

It’s a cloak. Even Tyrion can tell it’s finely made, and that it’ll protect Daenerys well against the cold nights. There’s a delicate embroidery of dragons along the hems. From the way Daenerys is stroking it, it seems very soft.

“It’s lovely,” she says.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” says Sansa with a touch of pride. “Dragons had been gone for such a long time, I wasn’t sure if mine would resemble yours. I’m glad my embroidering was true.”

Daenerys looks even more pleased at the revelation that the cloak had been made by the Lady before her.

“I have been told it is much warmer in Essos than here,” Sansa continues delicately. “As you are newly arrived in Westeros and still unfamiliar with its seasons, I thought it would be of use to you.”

That freezes the Queen’s smile. She cannot claim that she doesn’t appreciate the gift after praising it, but accepting it has allowed Sansa to remind her of her foreigner status. The North is not here to simply bend the knee.

Sansa Stark has always been clever. Now she’s showing it.

“It’s been a long Summer for us all,” puts in Tyrion hastily.

“Yes. But Winter _is_ coming, Your Grace. And we must unite before it.”

Sansa is not smiling anymore either. Her hands are clasped tight before her.

“We shall unite,” says Daenerys slowly. “After the Starks put down their crown, together, we will drive the Lannisters into the sea. We will give your family the justice it deserves. We will reunite the Seven Kingdoms and have peace once more. But first you must bend the knee.”

Tyrion is staring straight ahead now. Daenerys had not been like this in Essos. She had accepted Yara as Queen of the Iron Islands easily. It is different for the North of course - the North is huge, a good fifth of Westeros perhaps. Still, she had been willing to compromise there in a way she is not here. A tiny part of his mind wonders if there’s something in the water of Westeros, something that disagrees with the Targaryens and drives them mad. He squashes the thought down savagely - Daenerys is not mad. She’s probably right. Without the North, they are immeasurably weaker. It’s just...

“I’m afraid you must have misunderstood me, Your Grace. If you want the North to bend the knee, you'll have to go visit Winterfell yourself. I am not Queen - I have no authority to swear to you.”

“Then why did Jon Snow not come himself?”

“His Grace is busy securing the North against Winter.”

“Busy,” says Daenerys flatly. “This is preposterous. I see no reason to seek any kind of peace with a man who is too _busy_ to come treat with me himself.”

“My grandfather and uncle went south to treat with the Targaryens. The Mad King burned them alive,” says Sansa, her voice so light she could still be talking about the weather. Tyrion’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t have to turn around to know Daenerys’ nostrils are flaring. “Stark men do not fare well when meeting Targaryens.”

“And Stark women?”

Daenerys’ voice is a final, frosty warning. Sansa’s chin lifts slightly. Her eyes dart for a moment to Tyrion and then meet the Queen’s once more.

“Are you planning to rape me yourself, Your Grace?”

Mad! The girl is utterly mad!

There’s hisses from the Dothraki who understand the Common Tongue. Missandei gasps softly. Very slowly, Brienne of Tarth shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet, as though she’s ready to grab her Lady and rush her back to the boat, Dothraki swords be damned. The Onion Knight has a perfectly unreadable expression on his face. Tyrion isn’t sure he can say the same thing for himself. A droplet of sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

But Sansa Stark keeps staring up at the Queen, defiant and still. And Daenerys is silent too. Tyrion doesn’t know what is passing between them, what silent battle of wills or quiet understanding. For once, he doesn’t know how to break it. He may not be able to keep his promise to Sansa after all. The silence stretches. The droplet of sweat is followed by many more.

“On behalf of House Targaryen,” says Daenerys finally and her voice rings out clearly. “I ask your forgiveness for the crimes committed against your family, Lady Stark.”

Sansa curtsies once more, far deeper this time. The stifling tenseness that had slowly been suffocating the room peaks and breaks. Tyrion rolls his shoulders covertly; his back had gone stiff. There’s an odd expression on Sansa’s face for a moment, before it is smoothly replaced by a smile again. This is, most likely, he considers, the first time anyone has ever apologised for any of the crimes against her family.

“Perhaps it is indeed for the best that it is a Targaryen Queen and a Lady Stark who meet,” Daenerys continues. “But I confess I do not understand, my Lady: if you’re not here bend the knee, why are you here?”

“I am here because Winter is coming - the Long Night is coming,” Sansa says. “It’s not a figure of speech. His Grace, my brother, has seen an army of the dead approaching the Wall, led by the Night King. I am here because _that_ is the northern King who we should all be fighting, and because my brother is busy preparing our lands to stand against him.”

She says all this so reasonably that it takes Tyrion completely aback. Perhaps she truly has gone mad, from grief and terror and hatred. Or perhaps Jon Snow has - too much blinding white that far north. But Brienne of Tarth and Ser Davos are looking up at Daenerys steadily, without even a flinch.

“An army of the dead,” repeats Daenerys incredulously. “And none of you here has seen it, I take it?” She shakes her head when there’s no immediate reply. “I am to go off the word of a man who is busy arming himself right now - likely to march on us after we are weakened from defeating Cersei. Lord Snow commits treason, and sends his sister to lie and distract me while he does so. My advisors tell me they like Jon Snow, they respect Jon Snow - but I find only a coward or a madman.”

Now it is the Onion Knight who is shifting uncomfortably. His eyebrows are down and he looks ready to speak up and defend his King. His Lady’s face, however, remains calmly pleasant.

“Before today, I had never seen dragons either,” points out Sansa, smoothly preventing Ser Davos from speaking up. “I came here on Lord Tyrion’s word. Surely the Mother of Dragons has seen more impossible things than me.”

There’s no real way to answer that, so Tyrion gets to the heart of the matter.

“Regardless of what Jon Snow saw,” he says. “You cannot expect us to halt hostilities with my sister. We must deal with her first, or else we will be surrounded if we do go north. The Wall stands between us and this… Night King - we’ve no wall between us and the Lannisters.”

Sansa’s hands twitch, as if she’d very much like to clench them. She brushes back her hair instead and speaks directly to the Queen as if she'd been the one who'd spoken.

“I may be the one person in Westeros who wants Cersei dead more than Your Grace and Lord Tyrion. Her family has plotted the death of my father, my mother, three of my brothers, and my only sister. Cersei and her son tormented me for _years_. They humiliated me and hurt me, and laughed at my tears.”

Tyrion has to look away. He remembers her as a young girl too clearly, with red-rimmed eyes and bruises from Joffrey’s knights.

“If you brought me Cersei’s head today I would weep of joy and kiss your hands. So please understand how serious I am, Your Grace, when I say _there’s no time_.”

Tyron risks a glance back at Daenerys. She looks troubled, he thinks, uncertain for the first time she has landed on these shores. Perhaps she’s thinking of what it would take for her to put aside her own revenge against those who’d wronged her family, who’d hurt her. He’s thinking about it too, and he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. But then her mouth firms.

“You came here on the word of one man by yourself. If I were to go north on the word of one woman, it would be with two armies and three dragons. I will not move my people without better proof. And if I _do_ move them,” Daenerys’ eyes flash. “We will have to go through the North to get to the Wall. Tell your brother he would be best off becoming the second King Who Knelt.”

Now, Sansa’s hands do clench into fists. She gives the Queen a jerky nod. Tyrion imagines Winterfell burning. He imagines Sansa does too.

“Now,” says Daenerys, polite and smooth again. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Lady Stark?”

There is another long moment of silence. Then Sansa’s face brightens into yet another smile.

“In truth there is, Your Grace. I - that is, Ser Davos and I, as he understands these things better - were hoping to talk to you about dragonglass.”

Dragonglass is a far smaller favour. This time, Sansa does not challenge the Queen, and Daenerys does not threaten the North, and Tyrion is able to wrangle them both into some sort of agreement. But he leaves the throne room troubled. Sansa Stark has given him a lot to think about.

**Author's Note:**

> The original [prompt](http://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/8859.html?thread=3740059#%2Ft3792283) as follows:
> 
> _Instead of going to meet Dany, Jon, Davos, and Sansa all know that they need Dany and her men to defeat The Others, and she will most likely as Jon to bend the knee to her, so Sansa finds away around that by saying if she bent the knee to Dany, Jon keeps his hands clean, doesn't lose the trust of his people, and still get Dany to join the fight against The Others. Before Sansa sails for Dragonstone, Davos tells her that Dragonstone is filled with dragonglass that they need to defeat The Others. I would love to see how both Dany and Sansa interact with each other, as women who've been brutalized by men, and skilled politicians. How would do Varys and Tyrion react to seeing this skilled politician in front of them?_
> 
> This is my first time writing GOT, so tell me what you think! :)


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